


Like Falling Angels

by voodoo_smile



Category: Indie Music RPF, Music RPF, Pop Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, Rock Music RPF, The Cure (Band), music and bands
Genre: Angst, Dark, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanfiction, Hurt, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LSD, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Rating: M, Rating: NC17, Recreational Drug Use, Regret, Slash, The Cure, robin gallith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoo_smile/pseuds/voodoo_smile
Summary: Setting: Robert Smith. (Robert's POV) 1982. Pornography era.Disclaimer: I do not own The Cure. Everything described in this story is fictional.*Warning: Angst and drug use. Robert’s pining away for a certain someone, and wondering why their relationship is suddenly going south, resulting in a drug-addled confession, of sorts.The idea for this fic came about after reading Robert’s inspiration for writing certain songs on the Pornography album. At that time, the modus operandi was to lock himself away in his bedroom in his parents’ house or walk the streets of London alone, either completely drunk or under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs, writing down words on scraps of paper and anything else he could find. Many songs on the album are about guilt and self-loathing.This is just a very short scene written from Robert's POV that gives a glimpse into his deteriorating state of mind*





	Like Falling Angels

I can’t sleep anymore, though these days that’s nothing new. Considering the mass quantities of illicit drugs I’ve been ingesting constantly, I suppose it’s easy to figure out why such a simple, yet essential thing like sleep would be so difficult.

A few nights ago it was no different after I came back from another one of my late-night binges. I had decided to stay up most of the night alone in my childhood bedroom in my parent’s house, intent on simply sitting on the bed with the windows open in my acutely heightened state, listening to the sounds of the night – sounds otherwise hardly recognized in the bright bustle of the day; the house groaning and creaking as it settled, trees rustling in the autumn breeze, cats fucking in the back garden…

The LSD I’d taken was still in my system, and every sound was an intense sensation. It was almost too much and I had become fidgety, unable to sit still. After spending what I perceived was a mere few minutes to try and find a pen and paper amongst the cluttered chaos of my room, I’d realized nearly an hour had passed – I hadn’t even noticed how side-tracked I had become just hunting for those two simple items. Strangely enough, it wasn’t until I stopped to take a breath, my heart pounding and head buzzing, that I perceived just how manic the entire situation had become. Before I knew it, countless scraps of paper were strewn around me on the bed; words and phrases scrawled all over torn pages from my stockpile of notebooks, inside book covers and bits of pages torn from books, and more desperately, even on paper receipts.

However, this afternoon when I went back to read what I had hastily jotted down, it was nonsensical, almost indecipherable, but at the time, that didn’t matter to me. I was determined to put my deranged thoughts down for posterity, no matter how jumbled and disjointed they were.

Now sitting here alone again in the dimming light of dusk, my thoughts begin to wander in the direction I hadn’t intended, and before the effects of the LSD I had taken earlier temporarily alters my mind, I decide to take a different approach to what it is I need to write about. I just need motivation or focus…and when I look up, there it is sitting right in front of me. I rise from the bed and cross the room to my bookshelf where perched high atop is the witness to all that I need to purge from my heart and soul.

I place the sculpture on the bed beside me and look down at it and notice that it’s collected dust over the months of sitting by itself silently amidst the disorder surrounding it, and I lightly brush at it with my fingers. It’s heavy and solid and utterly grotesque, but it captivated me as soon as I laid eyes on it a year before. We had been filming one of the worst videos in the group’s history and the only good thing about the whole experience was the location of the shoot. It was one to which I insisted upon; thinking the old, disused asylum was most fitting, for some reason. And when I had opened a cupboard in one of the rooms, that hideous sculpture—the disfigured face with a cold detached stare—glared back at me, as if it was speaking to me…so I brought it back with me to the hotel, much to everyone else’s disappointment, and took it home.

It sat on my bedside table for weeks and I would find myself simply gazing at it for quite some time wondering who made it and why, and what had been their inspiration. Often thinking that perhaps it was a self-portrait of the patient—their mind distorted and eaten through with madness while creating this image of themselves, this piece of art…

Eventually, my dreams became just as demented as the very face that seemed to stare over at me each night from its place next to my bed, and so I made the wise decision to move it across the room somewhat out of sight. It’s been there ever since, mostly forgotten about as it sat on its perch, observing from high above.

By now, the effects of the LSD are quite apparent as I grab a pen and scrap of paper. I glance down at that face once again, and surprisingly, my eyes well up with tears as I begin to write, but I immediately stop scribbling—my thoughts have suddenly turned sour and I can’t seem to prevent myself from being overtaken by it all; the guilt, the disgust…a deep disappointment at what my life has become, how much of a bastard I’ve become, and even worse, all the lurid secrets I’ve kept hidden inside…and my mood plummets even further into darkness.

So many things have happened over the past few years that have changed me, and not for the better, though there have been a few glimmerings in the murk; certain things that I never in my wildest dreams would imagine happening to a man like me—a nobody. I know that being in the group has awarded me money and certain pleasures: unlimited drugs and alcohol, to name a few, and though those excesses have been difficult to break free from, they were nothing compared to certain other transgressions in which I have indulged.

Though I suppose indulging in _you_ has been my biggest discretion of all…

I open my eyes and look back down at the head that seems to just lie there. It’s waiting for me to speak, waiting for my confession, but I can’t utter a word. And as my mind spins in my increasingly altered state, I notice that through my tears the head looks as though it’s melting. It’s alarming, and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve as if to clear my vision, but it doesn’t work; much to my horror the head begins to dissolve away, taking on another face entirely, and I gasp as my tears continue. The face seems to blur into a likeness that I’ve come to know very well over the years and my heart races as if it’s ready to burst out of my chest. I want to cry out, but my exclamation emerges small and stifled…in the sound of your name.

“Simon…” I manage to utter as the light shifts in my room, the day transforming quickly into darkness as the moonlight now shines through my open window and onto your face.

I take a deep breath and reach down in an attempt to touch you, to see if this is real, but my hand only lands on cold, hard plaster.

You had cast a spell over me from the very beginning. I was drawn to you from the very start, and I’m certain you knew that. We were so young, just teenagers, and from the moment we met it was all about you. I couldn’t stop myself. I was so eager to enter your world, and I did so, wholeheartedly. I remember our quiet moments away from everyone else and they were some of the best moments, closed off in our own little space in time…and more often than not, in those moments, I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering over your face, thinking what it would be like to kiss you.

I have to admit, in the days to come, that feeling swelled; a warmth throughout my entire body spread whenever I would see you or talk to you, whether in person or over the telephone and at last…when I would reach out and touch you. Some nights I would lie awake and think about it all: that strange yet familiar warmth, and how happy it made me feel. How happy _you_ made me feel. I simply had to be near you always…

After that one euphoric night we had together—the night you finally let me kiss you, touch you—it hasn’t been the same. When I laid you back on the bed as my hands slid your tight jeans down and off your perfect body I was in disbelief that it was finally happening. And when your dark eyes slowly drifted up to meet mine I nearly cried at that vision; your expression heavy and lustful, your face flushed as you lay on your back naked and beautiful.

I had to kiss you again, right before I knew what was going to happen, and it was one the most perfect moments ever. As my tongue pushed past your soft lips, it plunged into your sweet mouth and my hand moved from gently tugging at your dark hair, down to your chest, then down your smooth, warm skin even further to your hip, where I paused and broke away from you. We were both breathless and trembling and as I raised myself up and looked down at your body once more to take you in, I knew it wasn’t enough. It could never be. I had to have you–to make you mine just once… I couldn’t stop myself, and if I remember correctly, you wanted it just as much.

Fucking you was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. You were _glowing_. It was all-consuming... Just the _way_ you let me have you. Perhaps I never thought you could be as passionate as you were that night. After stopping to think about it, I still can’t even explain it.

But the next afternoon everything changed, just like I knew it would. I'm not that stupid—nothing can stay perfect forever. In fact, you even tried to convince me into thinking that what had occurred between us that I remembered with such clarity, was anything but real—just a figment of my drug-addled and alcohol-soaked mind. Of course, you didn’t even need to say that, I could see it in your eyes, and I’ll never forget your expression then; the scowl on your face as you turned away, unable to look at me.

Eventually, this _thing_ between us which I naively found so beautiful and unique, turned into something depraved and forbidden…

“Simon!” I call loudly. It’s as if I think you can hear me—as if my voice can bring you to me now, but there’s no reply, no sound other than my quiet sobs as I look down at you.

If only you were here with me… I’m struggling now, struggling to force my feelings to stay pushed down deep inside. In my arrogance and anger towards you, I too, have denied those feelings, kept them well-hidden.

I never wanted it to be this way…

My tears are now dripping on the paper below and I dry my eyes with the sleeve of my t-shirt and sniff in an effort to try and compose myself.

“Why?” I ask out loud, my voice emerging weak and hopeless, but I can’t help it. Why was everything now going so wrong between us? What was happening?

We barely speak to each other anymore, with Laurence existing in the group for the sole purpose of acting as the buffer between you and me; to temper the constant friction, the tension…and I’m left to wonder whether I can even finish this album or not.

I now feel as if I’m going to vomit. I just can’t take this anymore, and I finally manage to refrain from retching as the wave of nausea ebbs…and I reach for my jacket. No matter how far from reality my mind is at the moment, I have to see you, speak to you. I have to seek you out now. I want you. No, it's not even that simple—I _need_ you. I’m not quite certain if it will even matter, but I at least have to try.

This can’t go on.

_*THE END*_


End file.
